by Joseph Flynn
Chapter 23
McGill returned directly to the White House from Andrews Air Force Base — after arranging to have a car deliver Professor Lochlan to his daughter’s residence. Upon arriving at the Executive Mansion, he went to the residence and called the Oval Office to see if his wife was free.
“The president is meeting with Lieutenant Yates,” Edwina Byington told him.
“Please let her know that I’m back and I’ll be meeting with Dr. Nicolaides this afternoon to have my annual physical exam.”
Edwina coughed. McGill was sure he heard her say, “About time,” under it.
“Tickle in your throat, Edwina?” he asked.
“The long hours, sir. I’d better call for some tea and honey.”
He let it go. She had reason to give him a little grief; his recalcitrance on the issue having been a distraction to her boss. And distracting the president could have national, even global, consequences. Something for a good henchman to think about.
There was a knock at the door of McGill’s Hideaway and Blessing entered. Unbidden, he’d brought McGill a glass of White House ice tea. “Good to have you home, sir.”
McGill took the glass and saw that Blessing’s smile was more than his usual happy-to-be-of-service version, and his eyes were misted with emotion.
“Everything okay, Blessing?” McGill asked.
“Wonderful, sir. My sister, Aya, and my brother, Merritt, come home from the hospital today. The transplant was a complete success. They’re both doing fine.”
McGill beamed. “You’re right, that is wonderful. Please give them my best wishes.”
“I will, sir. I’ll be taking the rest of the day off. But when I heard you’d returned to the residence, I wanted to give you the news in person. And I’d appreciate it if you’d pass it along to Ms. Sweeney.”
“I’ll do that. I was just about to call her. Before you leave, would you please ask Devin to come by in half an hour?”
Devin Waters was one of two licensed massage therapists employed by the White House. The other was Antoinette Barrie. Both were completely professional, but capital gossip being what it was, McGill always used Devin. Today, McGill wanted to get his blood pressure down before he saw Nick for his physical.
“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”
“I think so.”
Blessing left, still smiling. McGill took the news about Blessing’s sister as a good sign. It was still possible that sometimes things could go right. Occasionally, you even got on a roll and had several good days in a row. He called Sweetie. Told her Blessing’s news.
“Bishop Dempsey says a mean novena, doesn’t he?” she said, clearly pleased. “I’m glad you’re back. I think I found you a lawyer.”
McGill said, “We’ll keep him in reserve. I’ve got my own plan for dealing with Senator Roger Michaelson.”
“What is it?”
McGill told her.
Sweetie said with glee in her voice, “I’ve got to be there for that.”
Walking into the Oval Office and saluting, Welborn thought the president looked more tired — less glamorous — than he’d ever seen her. Somehow, though, this hint of mortality made her even more appealing. Like someone for whom he’d give his life. Not that he wanted it to come to that.
“Please be seated, Lieutenant,” the president told him.
Welborn took a chair, glad to be off his feet. He was tired, too.
“You’ve heard about Mrs. Altman?” the president asked.
“Yes, ma’am.” Welborn told his commander in chief of his planned lunch with the late wife of the Air Force chief of staff, his check of the metro area hospitals, and his time spent at the crime scene with Lieutenant Bullard, the Metro homicide detective.
He also raised the president’s eyebrows when he told her that his stolen car might have been used to commit the crime.
“Someone’s trying to implicate you, Lieutenant?”
Welborn had taken the idea a step farther than that, and the president, tired though she was, was still sharp enough to see the other possibility and give voice to it.
She said, “Maybe it doesn’t have to be that drastic. Maybe the mere suggestion that you’re involved is sufficient to have me remove you from the investigation.”
“Yes, ma’am. That idea occurred to me, too.”
He waited to see if the strategy was going to be successful.
The president shook her head. “You’re in for the duration, Lieutenant.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“You might want to be sparing in your gratitude. I’m sure we have other thoughts in common. Disturbing ones.”
For a moment, Welborn was silent. Then he said, “Such as, would the Air Force chief of staff kill his wife to prevent her from telling me about his adultery with Colonel Linberg?”
“That, and as a warning to the colonel that she had better keep quiet. Or be very careful the next time she steps out into traffic.”
Welborn frowned. He hadn’t thought of that, but no way could you argue that it was an unreasonable assumption. Not if you liked General Altman for murdering his spouse.
“Were the police able to establish the time of death, Lieutenant.”
He told her that the three witnesses placed the time at 11:28 a.m. Give or take a minute.
Without having to consult her schedule, the president said, “General Altman was here at the White House with the other joint chiefs at that time. They were meeting with me.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“But four-stars rarely do their own heavy lifting, do they, Lieutenant?”
“That’s not been my experience, ma’am.”
“Do you have any ideas as to whom General Altman might turn for such help?”
Welborn named the general’s aide, Major Clarence Seymour. “When Ms. Fahey gave me a ride back to Washington from Annapolis, she saw a man fitting Major Seymour’s description in her rearview mirror. If he’d been following me earlier, he’d have seen where I left my car.”
“Meaning he’d be an auto thief as well as a murderer.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The president picked up her phone. “Edwina, will you see if a Major Clarence Seymour accompanied General Warren Altman to the White House yesterday for the meeting I had with the joint chiefs. If so, see if he stayed here the whole time General Altman did.”
Every visitor to the West Wing of the White House was logged in and logged out. Edwina had the answer within twenty seconds.
“Thank you, Edwina,” the president said and hung up. She turned to Welborn. “Major Seymour was also at the White House at the time Mrs. Altman was killed.”
Welborn bit his lip, thinking hard. He’d been all but certain Seymour was the killer. Who else could it have been? Unable to solve the puzzle immediately, he wondered if the cop’s wife sitting opposite him would turn to her more seasoned investigator for help.
“How are you getting along with Ms. Fahey?” the president asked, changing the subject.
It was all Welborn could do not to blush, and he was very glad he’d done nothing more than kiss Kira. “Just fine, ma’am. I brought her with me to the lunch we were supposed to have with Mrs. Altman yesterday.”
The president saw his stratagem immediately. “Which gave you a prominent witness to the probity of your actions should anyone try to put you in a compromising position.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And if someone had more sinister intentions for you, Lieutenant, would you have shielded Ms. Fahey from harm?”
The thought that he might be placing Kira in harm’s way had never occurred to Welborn. Which only made him painfully aware of how wet behind the ears he was. But Welborn Yates was no coward, and he answered honestly, “Yes, ma’am, I would have protected her at all costs.”
“Good,” the president said, “because I’d hate to have to explain to Vice President Wyman and Mrs. Fahey that I was responsible for losing Kira.”
“No, m
a’am, I won’t let that happen. I … I’ll only liaise with Ms. Fahey from now on. I won’t take her into the field with me.”
The president nodded her approval.
McGill showered before his massage and after. Yet another joy of living in the White House was that you never had to worry about running out of hot water. He arrived at Dr. Nicolaides’ office in his DePaul University sweats and what he assumed — hoped — was radiant good health.
The White House physician ran down the list of what the physical would encompass. If there were any findings in the office that required further study, the examination would take place at Bethesda Naval Hospital. Immediately. So as not to be delayed by McGill’s outside obligations.
McGill grumbled but didn’t flee. He insisted on only one change in the plan. Nick had to take his blood pressure before he did the DRE — the digital rectal exam to check McGill’s prostate gland. There’d be no telling how hard his heart would be beating after he’d been goosed. The doctor laughed and agreed.
All of McGill’s vital signs were taken. Blood samples were drawn and would be sent to the laboratory. A treadmill EKG was done. Everything was looking good, then McGill got goosed. He was proud that he didn’t yelp. Even though Nick seemed to be making a project of it.
Nick stripped off the surgical glove he’d used to do the job and disposed of it. He told McGill to pull up his pants. They went to Nick’s office and the physician settled in behind his desk, took just a minute to finish his notes before turning to his patient.
“I didn’t know you’d been shot,” he said.
“Back when I was a Chicago copper. Wasn’t too bad, but it confirmed my first wife’s worst fears.”
“A dangerous situation?” Nick asked, fishing for details.
“A ridiculous situation,” McGill replied. “A high-society temper tantrum.”
The maestro of the Chicago symphony had called the CPD and claimed that his life had been threatened by the orchestra’s most generous patron. All because the fat-cat philanthropist thought his largesse should give him the privilege of choosing the music for a few of the orchestra’s programs. The maestro, being a maestro, told the fat cat to go choke on his money. The fat cat told the maestro he could be replaced quickly, and he would never lead another orchestra again. The maestro chose to interpret this as a death threat.
The department sent McGill to mediate.
The cop and the two antagonists met on the stage at Orchestra Hall. Where a concert grand piano sat. The fat cat conceded that he’d overstepped himself. Shouldn’t have intruded into the maestro’s creative preserve, but still thought his generosity deserved some consideration. He had a letter from the orchestra’s board of directors seconding this point. It was suggested the maestro give a private performance then and there for the fat cat.
“The maestro read the letter,” McGill told Nick, “ and sat down at the piano.”
“The maestro gave in?” Nick asked in disbelief.
“He played “Chopstix.” A terrific arrangement, but still “Chopstix.” The fat cat was insulted. So he pulled out a little .25 automatic, proving the maestro was on the money with his assumption of a death threat, and tried to shoot the guy.”
“But you got in the way.”
“I did. Got shot in the ribs, lower right, as you saw.”
“Did you shoot the fat cat?”
“I took the gun away and slapped his face. Hard.”
“That was all?”
“The maestro laughed. So I gave him the back of my hand.”
“Were charges filed?”
“Against big shots like them? In Chicago? Just for shooting a cop?” McGill shook his head. “They threatened to sue me. Only reason they didn’t, I told them I’d testify in court that they’d both cried like babies after I’d slapped them.”
Nick smiled, having enjoyed the story.
“You going to tell me now that I’ve got to have something done that won’t hurt nearly as bad as getting shot?” McGill asked.
“You need a colonoscopy. I felt a rectal polyp that will have to be removed before it can become a tumor. Not as bad as getting shot, not as simple as a DRE.”
“Otherwise?”
“For a pale man, you’re very healthy.”
“Heart’s okay?”
“Very good.”
As Nick had said, he wanted to have the work done right away.
McGill told him soon but not quite yet.
McGill was back in his hideaway, thinking if he had a polyp maybe he’d better start eating more roughage. Or less smoothage. Something. There was a knock at the door, and Galia entered. She looked at McGill sitting on his sofa, glass in his hand, apparently nothing better to do than stare at a cold fireplace. The way her gaze returned to his glass, McGill could tell she was wondering what he was drinking.
“Ice tea,” he said. “Care for a glass?”
“No, thank you.”
She handed the manila folder she’d been carrying to McGill.
“Here’s the information you requested.”
She still didn’t think much of his plan; that was clear.
McGill looked at the information she’d provided. Senator Michaelson would be at Political Muscle tomorrow morning at 7:00 a.m. He was scheduled for a workout, nothing more. But McGill didn’t worry. He’d get Michaelson where he wanted him. Also included in the folder was a fairly thorough scouting report of Michaelson’s game and an unmarked DVD.
“What’s this?” McGill asked, holding up the disc.
“Highlights from his college career, transferred from videotape.”
McGill smiled. “Galia, this is great.”
“I watched some of that disc. He looked pretty good to me.”
“Uh-huh. That’s what I remember, too.”
“How good are you?”
“Want to come and see?” McGill asked.
“No, thanks. I can’t remember where I put my pompoms.”
McGill grinned. “You can always yell, ‘Go, team!’”
“You’d better win, that’s all I can say.”
After reading the scouting report and watching the DVD, McGill built a fire in the fireplace and fell asleep on the sofa. He was awakened, but not to the point of opening his eyes, by someone caressing his cheek with well-buffed fingernails.
“Is that you, Edwina?” he murmured.
“I can be Edwina, if you want. Just keep your eyes closed.”
“That’s right, you’re an actor,” McGill said, playing along. “So how come you never won an Oscar?”
Velvety lips made their way around his face.
“I made only four movies, and every time I worked, Meryl did, too.”
“Damned inconsiderate of her.”
Fingers played arpeggios along his ribs.
“I’ve heard she voted for me.”
“We won’t have her deported then.”
Good at spatial relationships, McGill found her face with his hands, never needing to peek, and kissed her deeply.
“There’s one problem with this game,” he said.
“What?”
“I like to look.” He opened his eyes.
In addition to seeing Patti, McGill saw that the fire had been rebuilt, a red fleece blanket had been spread atop the rug, champagne was chilling in an ice bucket, and strawberries and whipped cream nestled in bowls of White House Wedgwood.
“On the floor in front of a fire, with edible goodies, to be consumed in who knows what depraved manner?” McGill asked. “The nation would be scandalized.”
“If only they knew,” Patti said, tugging him off the sofa.
Damon Todd couldn’t remember the last time he’d been back to Gambier. Not consciously. A little self-hypnosis could bring back the precise date, but he applied his techniques to himself for only the most important of matters.
The place seemed so small. A two-palm island in the midst of an agricultural sea. Old haunts had disappeared; the latest crop of retail cha
in outlets had taken their places. But the roads, what few of them there were, remained the same. He found his way to Chana’s street just as the sun was slipping below the horizon.
From the corner of the block where the Lochlan house stood, he saw the old lady who lived next door just going inside. He remembered her. The neighborhood snoop. Her name was … Harriet Greenlea. He thought she’d have died years ago. He cruised by the Lochlan and Greenlea houses doing just under the 25 mph speed limit.
Lights were on in both dwellings. It seemed reasonable to assume that an elderly woman would turn in for the night before Professor Lochlan did. He’d wait until Mrs. Busybody went to bed before he rang the doorbell at the house where Chana had grown up. It took willpower to defer the completion of his journey, but discipline was his life.
He rationalized that after spending so many hours in a car, he needed a good brisk run, anyway. He’d do a lap or two of the university campus. Maybe he could sneak into the gymnasium and use the exercise equipment. Keep his sweats on so he wouldn’t attract too much attention. Feel strong before he talked to Eamon Lochlan.
Not that he anticipated any trouble.
They were friends. Todd would tell the professor that Chana had contacted him. Asked for his help. He was consulting with her father to make sure his therapeutic approach was correct. Why, the story was at least half-true.
Damon Todd had been born and raised in Gambier. His parents had been pillars of the community. Dad had been a doctor, a general practitioner. Mom had taught elementary school math. Older sister, Darcy, had been a registered nurse. All of them had been wonderful people. All of them had been such appalling underachievers they’d driven him crazy.
They’d sold themselves so short. Dad had done his crossword puzzles orally, calling out one answer after the next; and he tossed off bon mots with the wit and quickness of Oscar Wilde. He could have been a great surgeon, a great writer, or both. Instead, he tended to a never-ending procession of kids with runny noses, middle-aged women with female problems, and gray-hairs with hip fractures. Mom was even more gifted, a true math prodigy. She could have taught at her alma mater, MIT. Instead she worked in a public school, sometimes with children so young they hadn’t learned to hold a pencil properly. Darcy was a success at everything she ever tried. She could have become the first female doctor in the family. But no, Darcy became a nurse and, after she married the Reverend Milton Bidwell, a missionary nurse.
